


hear a howl and i say, is that you darlin'?

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Genderqueer Character, M/M, Other, and overthrowing the government, foul and demeaning language, incomplete work, space fantasy, this is just gay cowboy aliens, violence and mild disturbing themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Swalka has spent the last fifteen years denying that he used to hold faith in the galaxy. That he used to remember what living felt like, and that there was something to this existence other than the next mission. It only took the grinding of sand and a chance meeting to realize the past had never once left him.-Or, I was told to write about cowboys and aliens, and ended up with a gritty fantasy long-lost lovers AU. sorry.
Kudos: 2
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Unit 1

**Author's Note:**

> i heard a howl, darlin’, and i lifted my head  
> and i asked, darlin’, is that you?  
> i sunk my elbows into roaring sand  
> and i asked, have you finally come for me, darlin’?  
> i smelt your bloody breath on the wind  
> and felt your sharp nails caress my skin  
> and i thought, darlin’ death, it’s nice to be home.

**Swalka isn’t no greenhorn rider, but by** **_Oaella_ ** **is his ass starting to hurt.**

Dust has settled happily into every crevice upon his body, layers of sweat evaporated and crackled over one another like trails of a dried riverbed. The saddle of his  _ raqujka  _ is fine leather; and the endless days of riding have made him grateful that he spent such high coin. Even so, the red sandy grit has begun to chafe between the rippling muscle of his  _ raqujka  _ and the straps, and Swalka knows she needs a break. His  _ raqujka  _ might be strangely docile for her kind, but Swalka isn’t gonna push his luck when he has none. 

The altitude of these desert mountains leaves the air thin and dry; and Swalka has been licking flecks of blood from his cracked lips for days. This region seems to cast a copper filter onto everything it touches, and the rusted oranges and river clay hues are starting to make him sick. 

His mount snorts, bouncing her neck and jangling the buckles of the reins. The veins of her head are bulged and visible between scattered scales, and she turns to fix a single emerald eye upon his face. A curved fang edges between her lips, and her visible eye starts to crystallize into one of irritation. 

Well, shit. 

Swalka huffs, and moves to dismount. It’s not ideal to stop here in the canyons, but he’s not gonna argue with his  _ raqujka.  _ They’re fickle beasts on the best days, and on the worst you’d be lucky to escape with your life. The ropes of puffy scar tissue on his collarbones and thighs are a prime example of that. 

His boots make little sound when they hit the sand, and he watches the gentle dust clouds drift west with the breeze. Swalka frowns. The western winds rarely bring anything good, and he can't afford to encounter a storm right now. 

_ (well, if you had completed your mission on time, you wouldn't be in this situation. do i need to give you a parting reminder, little kaklier bitch?) _

He snarls, ripping himself out of his thoughts, and his mount brings her head back around to stare at him bemusedly. 

He huffs again, roughly grabbing her reins to walk her underneath a rocky outcropping a brief distance away from the trail. Far enough to not be noticed, close enough to know who’s coming. It’s edging past afternoon, now, and he doesn’t want to meddle with the evening travelers. If he had his way at all, he’d be as far from this fucking nightmare of a canyon as possible, but. Orders are orders. 

(There’s a blinking tag that pulses, just below the surface of his skin, resting neatly against his ankle bone. It sings a tune he knows by heart, a promise of fiery death and bloody dirt, should he ever outstep his bounds, should he ever tug too hard on his leash. Somedays, he wonders, if he’d rather have  _ Oaella  _ devour his bones then live life as a chained mutt.)

-

Swalka eats his dinner quietly, taking quick and orderly bites before wrapping his rations back into his saddlebags and settling against the shadow of the outcropping. Being in this canyon makes his nerves rattle, and keeping watch will hopefully be enough to keep him occupied. 

To his left, his  _ raqujka  _ enjoys the stringy corpse of a desert jack-rabbit, using her curved hooves to keep it in place while her canines rip into its grey hide. It’s - quite frankly - a bit disgusting, but Swalka has been a rider long enough to ignore the crunching of bones and the occasional drip of cranial fluid. Comes with the territory, he muses. 

The suns have begun to set behind the swirling pillars of the canyon, bleeding the shadows into purple hues and cooling the blistering heat into a sleepy simmer. From this vantage point, Swalka can see the rippling guts and knots of the rock below, can see the dust spirits blowing through wind caves and across pebbled ravines. It has its own particular brand of beauty, this canyon. 

He releases a breath and breaks his eyes from the horizon. 

It may be beautiful, but this horrid landscape holds too many poor memories for him to appreciate it. Sometimes, he wonders if the higher-ups sent him this direction on purpose. Just to see him squirm. Just for him to remember torn cloth and bloody lips and bright eyes. 

He wouldn’t put it past them, the bastards. 

It’s been fifteen years. He knows how to keep his expression blank and his back straight enough not to arouse suspicion. He knows how to ignore their jeers, how to do his job and receive his rations and to choke himself into dreamless sleep. Like any  _ kaklir _ , he knows how to ignore the memories of  _ home _ and soft touches and free laughs. 

(Somedays, he wishes the raiders had just slit his throat then, like they did to his father. He wishes that they had left him to bleed into the blue soil of his motherland, that he had suffocated on his last breath before he was forced to listen to the shuddering iron of his cell, to the pound of chasing footsteps across scarlet rock-)

Like any  _ kaklir _ , he knows these lands. He does not forget. 

(One does not forget the eradication of their people, the burning of metal on wrists. One does not forget the crackling hours under the tripled suns, the slap of boot against granite, haunted faces and held breath. One does not forget being Found.)

These are the Raulk Canyons. And he knows better than to let his guard down. 

  
  


-

Swalka startles awake to a heavy silence, the air dark and night chill beginning to seep into his bones. Nearby, his mount snuffles in her sleep, her looming back rising and falling gently from where she has curled against the rock wall. 

Dragging a callused hand through his mussed curls, he cracks an eye open at the sprawling galaxy above him to check the eastern star’s position. It blinks happily at him from its position over the horizon, fluttering nebulae and star dust swirling from its epicenter. Just a little past mid-night, then. He sighs. 

The Raulk Canyons are patrolled frequently enough by the Rapak Lord’s soldiers; it’s a notorious watering hole for escaped convicts. The whirled rock and the fluctuation between blistering day heat and frigid nights make it difficult for the patrols to Find their prey, but it also makes it difficult for the potential  _ kaklir _ to survive. 

Swalka would know, he’d been one of them. 

In the canyon below, the bobbing lights of a caravan make their way through the edged rock. There’s the huffing of a  _ hjon _ - _ mule _ , and raunchy laughs echo along the walls to the beat of booted footsteps. 

Sooner than Swalka would like, their voices crackle around the corner of the trail. A soldier is gesturing wildly with a pointed finger, his red leathers and golden star sigil burning under the light of a lit torch. Behind him, his sergeant and fellow guardsman roll their eyes at his dramatics. 

“-and I swear to all the seven stars, this fuckin’ _ kaklier _ looked like I insulted his whore mother!” He laughs, and spits into a nearby bush. “I still don’t get why his Majesty keeps criminals in his service. If I was Lord and someone disagreed with  _ me,  _ I’d just put ‘em in jail.” 

From the back, someone sneers. “Or just slit their throats. Don’t understand why we gotta work with scum like that.” 

The sergeant adjusts his vambraces as he walks. “They’re effective and fear-ridden rats. Works well enough.” He turns to the group. “Besides, some of ‘em are too skilled to go to waste. You ever worked with Umbra? That bastard can take out a whole squadron if you let ‘em loose.” 

Swalka edges closer, his leather soles soft on the sand.  _ Umbra, huh? _ The Lord rarely let two  _ kaklier _ work together, stating it was a “collusion risk”, but Swalka was still surprised to hear a name he was unfamiliar with. There were few in the service that he did not know.

_ Crack.  _

The nearest soldier startles and whips his torch around, casting licking shadows upon the rock. When his eyes land on a half-lidded iron gaze from beyond the trail, his shoulders jump and he shouts a warning. The whole squadron goes on alert, pulling out their  _ luek-staffs _ and into a defensive stance. 

Swalka just waits. 

The sergeant stalks to the edge of the trail, chin high and mouth grim. “Show yourself and state your business!” 

Swalka withholds the urge to scoff.  _ Idiots didn’t even know I was barely twenty feet away _ . Unfortunate that the mention of the unknown  _ kaklier _ had piqued his curiosity. He’d rather go back to his bedroll. 

He gives them no reply, and the sparking of the torches and the rush of wind through the canyon is all that fills their ears, suffocating in its silence. The sergeant’s frown has turned sour, and the cadets in the back have started to shift nervously. Pebbles cascade from a far-off outcropping, set loose by a rodent, and the reverberations echo through the canyon like hundreds of whispered voices. 

The sergeant clears his throat. “Step forward! This is an order from his majesty, Lord Rapak! Disobedience will result in disciplinary acti-” 

A soldier sucks in a breath. 

Swalka isn’t no tenderfooted babe, he knows he’s got a severe jawline and is riddled with scars like a _blakur_ shark. But they’re not focused on his face. The sergeant’s eyes lock onto his right arm, wound tight with blood red linens and _raipur_ wood cord. On his hand, a black fingerless glove etched with runes. 

Hard, slate eyes bore into the sergeant’s sneering visage. 

The sergeant spits in disgust, spittle lost in the parched sand. “I should have expected to see the Lord’s red  _ mutt _ in convict territory. Anybody ever teach you how to stay on a leash?” 

One of the younger soldiers in the back is gaping openly. He turns to his partner, frantically whispering, “Did he just threaten- is that the  _ Red Hand?” _ Swalka flicks an eye over to him in amusement, and the boy blanches. 

Swalka says nothing, intent on watching them all make a fool of themselves. Their leader is starting to get antsy and pissed, and hopefully, his tongue will only get looser. 

The soldiers watch warily while their sergeant continues to snarl. “Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself? You  _ kaklier _ bastards have no loyalty, I bet if I checked the logs right now you’d ge-” 

“RDHD, cor. 45-78-39, target:  _ Wakprin Jau’la.  _ Authorization number 98747.” His voice is raspy and graveled with disuse. 

The sergeant’s face flushes scarlet. “What are you-” 

Swalka eyes him. “Check the logs. If you checked instead of running your mouth, you’d know I’m authorized to be in this area.” 

A nearby guard frowns, crossing his arms. “I’d watch my own damn mouth if I were you. We all know who holds the leash here.” With a pointed look towards Swalka’s ankle, he steps back to grab a data-logger from their caravan. His boots crunch away in the loose gravel, but the air remains thick. 

Swalka stands still, face impassive. The sergeant stands opposite, scowl etching deep shadows in the flickering torch light. “I don’t get you rough  _ kaklier _ types,” he says. “You break the law, get tagged, and then turn around to disrespect your betters. Seems a bit self destructive, does it not?” 

He gets no reply. 

It only seems to spur the man on, undeterred by the lack of response. With even, stalking steps, he begins to circle around Swalka’s left side, staff thumping against his armored leg. “It’s been 15 years,  _ Red. _ I remember you, all the same.” There’s a cruel tilt to the sergeant’s mouth. Swalka keeps his eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge him. 

“You _ begged _ . You groveled at the feet of my captain like a little bitch, sobbed into the sands of this very ravine as we tagged you. What a sorry sight that was, to see a man debase himself so thoroughly. Pathetic.” 

The sergeant huffs, and Swalka can feel the man’s repugnant gaze make its way across his rigid spine. “Even that son of a bitch Umbra had to look away.” He laughs, cruel. 

Swalka hears the shifting of leathers and feels a sting, just under his jaw, and registers it as the burning of a  _ luek-staff. _ The tip hums, threatening, against the pulsing of his jugular vein. He does not flinch, even as the sergeant releases it harshly and stalks away. 

“Corporal L’aek, update the logs. Leave this bastard here for his  _ mission _ .” He says the word like it has personally insulted him. “I believe I’ve made my point quite clear.” The nearby soldiers salute, and with little fanfare, the caravan moves on. 

As the sounds of the mule and the jeering of the soldiers fade away, Swalka’s brow furrows. 

_ Even that son of a bitch Umbra had to look away. _

He was there? Was he a soldier? As far as Swalka knows, there had been no  _ kaklier _ among Rapak’s men that night. There were only those who had fled with him - who had escaped and been hunted down like vermin - and the soldiers who had Found them.

_ Even that son of a bitch Umbra had to look away. Even that son of a bitch Umbra had to look away. Umbra had to look- Umbra-  _

Swalka is left standing still in the darkness, with a phantom ache in his ankle and a very real one in his chest. 

-


	2. UNIT 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rides into the red shadows of the canyon, silent, because that is his duty. And he will see that it is complete, because it is all that he has.

-

The next morning brings a soft peachy tint to the sky and a delicate dew settled upon the ground. Swalka finds himself regularly wiping his gloves on his jerkin to dispel the moisture, and his  _ raqujka _ snorts her displeasure at the early hour in puffs of fogged breath. 

Despite the gentleness of the morning, his back is taut and his arms ache from tension. The encounter with the caravan last night has left a bitter taste in his mouth and he can’t help the feeling that he was missing something, something to do with the newly named  _ kaklier _ . The taunting from the soldiers is common and not unusual, but the unsettled feeling remains. 

Swalka hums to himself, adjusting his stirrups and double checking the saddlebags for his  _ viro _ -knives and his rifle. Capture-and-kill missions were normally drawn out waiting games, weeks and months of hunting with very little to show for it. Just a single anti-climatic  _ click _ , and another soul left to be collected by the gods. 

He loathes to admit it, but these missions were the ones he often looked forward to. 

Rapak was just a thief in golden threads, and Swalka would gladly spend months hunting some hapless victim of the Lord than spend more time in his adulterated kingdom. General apathy towards his so called “employment” aside, Swalka often swore that he could feel his organs rotting whenever he was called to stand next to the Lord as his  _ Red Right Hand _ . 

Swalka stops his inventory check and takes a moment to study his right arm, eyeing the coarse crimson fabric and the cords wound tight to keep it all in place. He runs his left index finger over the threads, mentally tracing the lines of ink embedded in his copper skin just below the darkened fabric. A deep breath later, he pulls his gaze away and lifts himself into the saddle, studiously ignoring the right hand that now grips the reins. 

To be a  _ kaklier _ was to accept your fate, to abandon the life that you once lived in order to serve the Lord. The false-king was a tyrant who had a rather perverse enjoyment in ravaging other worlds for their wells of natural resources, and to speak against Rapak meant a life behind bars. 

To attempt to refuse, to attempt freedom, to attempt  _ good _ , meant carved flesh, timed explosives and a shiny tag attached to your ankle bone. A simple step beyond your mission and the tag bursts, leaving your life fluid to drain into the soil and your bones to bleach in the sun. 

Swalka leans back in the saddle, silver eyes trained on the rocky crags above him and breath puffing in the chilled morning air. Fifteen years ago, ten years ago, he might have felt angry. Angry to be chained to a despicable kingdom and angry to be committing evil deeds just to stay alive. Now, he just feels hollow. 

His history is full of blood and lost hopes, but he can’t find it in him to care. Fifteen years is a long, bitter time. Even more so when your hands have only been muddied further by the blood of innocent men and the selfish desire for survival. 

He rides into the red shadows of the canyon, silent, because that is his duty. And he will see that it is complete, because it is all that he has.

  
  


-

  
  


When Swalka is a child, the world is full of blues and purples and the night sky. 

His mother-planet  _ Eillia _ was oceanic, creased with sharp molten rock and pebbled beaches, lit by two orbiting moons and a weak sun. Their cities were banked by mountain-rocking waves and shadowed storms, and the ocean was not a kind nor a benevolent ruler. 

Swalka, however, was smitten with it. 

Their nautical counterparts, the  _ gauifla,  _ often found him outside their establishments, cheerfully asking about their  _ viro _ -staffs, their swirling footsteps in battle and the galaxy-stars that lead them home. Despite his lack of  _ gauifla _ sea-legs, scales or fins, Swalka was insistent that he could stalk the depths of the sea and the tides just as any of their kind. 

His mother found it endearing, a child-like love for something so powerful and misunderstood. “I swear, you must have sea-blood in your line somewhere! Maybe your father’s side,” She would smile, and run her hand over his forehead and tousled curls while he whined. 

But then her weathered smile would wobble, and she would kneel down to hold his cheeks gently between her palms. “Swalka,” she would start, serious, “I want you to promise me something. I want you to put aside the sea-call and stay here with me, with me and Nau’dk. Do you understand?” 

Swalka would stay very still, flickering his gaze between her silver eyes, and nod. He would bounce on his toes, and flee her grasp to seek out his childhood friend. 

They were similar, him and Nau’dk, in the way that children raised together often were. They shared their meals, tied their laces the same way, laughed with the same humor, and walked together with the same beat. It was their nature, however, that was not shared between the two of them. Where Swalka strained against the call of the sea, Nau’dk was held by the call of the shadows. 

The war-maidens would gossip, sometimes. About the child who had to watch their step, lest they fall into a seperate spectrum of light and shadow. Whose laugh echoed a bit strangely, and whose silhouette seemed to dissolve and amalgamate with their surroundings. The child who had a human mother who was long dead, and a father was rumored to cast no shadow and make no sound. 

To Swalka, however, they were just  _ Nau’dk. _ They were full of impish smiles and knobby bones, with olive-toned skin and hair that would blend with the lava-rocks they scrambled over. Wherever adventure was, that’s where they’d be, dragging Swalka in with a tug on the wrist and a mischievous laugh. 

He would always hesitate a bit, but then he’d follow after Nau’dk anyways. Because that was who they were, follower and the followed, right and left, one between two. 

.

_ Those children _ , the war-maidens would whisper,  _ are going to shatter the stars _ . Some would say, in return,  _ or maybe the stars will shatter  _ them. 

-

Swalka is alerted to the appearance of late mid-day by the shrieking call of predatory sky-fowl, faint and haunting. The heat has started to thicken around his body, and it makes his lungs feel both too full and frustratingly empty of oxygen. Swalka finds himself cursing his target for leading him so far into this forsaken desert. 

He slows his mount, her curved hooves sloping through the soft sand and drifting through the brush. She snorts, balking at the walls of towering crimson rock that lie in front of them. He throws a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the rocky terrain, keeping his ears open for footfalls. He flips his knife in his hand, once, twice, a third time. Nothing, save the cries of the sky-fowl and wind turning dust over itself. 

Swalka takes a breath, and leans to slam the hilt of his vibo-knife against the rock wall. The dull  _ thwack  _ reverberates, echoing through the rock like a metal rod against a sand-filled drum. After counting to twenty in his head, he repeats. Beyond the same echoing notes of the rock, there is no response. Another few beats of silence pass and Swalka has to pull on the reins as his  _ raqujka _ shifts on her haunches, impatient. 

The unrelenting warmth of the suns is building under his leathers, and a stinging droplet of sweat has made its way down his brow. He curses at it, irritated, raising his knife to try again. Before he can, the wall shudders, the great tremor causing a few pebbles to escape from above and skitter down the rock face. His mount twitches, but doesn’t shy or buck, leaving him to thank  _ Oaella _ when she eventually stays firm. 

With another great tremor, the rock face in front of him splits, metal gears clicking and scraping as a stout walkway is revealed. The tunnel is made up of packed earth and poorly lit walls, but Swalka still catches scuffed steel-toed boots and one  _ significantly  _ vexed set of ruby eyes. 

Swalka lifts an eyebrow and tries not to look guilty. “Listen, Opiris-”

There’s a snarl. “You have a lot of nerve coming back here without a damn notice. I don’t take this shit lightly, you fuck.” 

Even mounted on his  _ raqujka, _ he feels small in the face of this woman. He grimaces. “Ok, look, I know I’m not supposed to-”

There’s a scoff as Opiris turns on her heel, buckles clinking and scales glinting in the darkness beyond the door. “I don’t want to hear it. Get your ass in here, brat, yer lettin’ all the heat in.” 

He bites his cheek to avoid the quirking of his lips, coughing into his shoulder to dispel his amusement. Grouchy old woman, that Opiris.  _ Grouchy,  _ he muses,  _ but good. _

A quick dismount later and his boots sink into dust, reins pulled in a guiding grip behind his back. His  _ raqjika _ slumps into the walkway, grateful to be out of the heat. Swalka finds himself thanking the gods that  _ raqjika _ prefer the dark, instead of shying at it like most mounts. 

Opiris’s rough voice drifts down the darkened tunnel. “Sharp right into the cavern, take your beast to the second stall. Tack goes on the left.” 

Swalka does as he is asked, quickly releasing his mount into the iron gated stall after pulling the dust-cracked tack from her back and checking the water trough. He’d normally do a more thorough brush-down, but he knows that his host is waiting. Disrespecting her is an idiotic move he can’t afford right now. He needs a final lead on his mission, and there is no better place to get it than here. 

He steps out back into the walkway, letting his left hand trail along chilled rock and following the sound of Opiris’s low-toned muttering. High above, he can hear the flickering of an aged hydrogen lamp, and smell the musk of the soil under his feet. A deep breath brings moisture to his starved lungs, and Swalka feels more at ease then he has in weeks.

A voice startles him out of his musings. “C’mhere, water-brat. You look like road-kill.” Opiris stands at the doorway to the main cavern, dagger hilt at her belt and a talon pointing to the nearest wooden chair. He lets his body settle into the seat, grateful for the way that tension seems to seep out of his bones and to the floor. 

Opiris flits away to a storeroom, grumbling about a drink, leaving Swalka to survey the cavern. 

It hasn’t changed in five-odd years. This deep underground, the rock is toned with shades of purple and emerald, shot through with rusted crystal and the occasional water-worn crevice. The right wall is taken up by a tattered bookcase, creaking under the weight of aged tomes and labeled info-disks. The main living area is made up of wooden furniture, sun-bleached and sturdy, with a scattering of writing utensils and forgotten manuscripts. 

Real books were rarer these days, most information in the galaxy having gone digital decades ago. In this sector, however, Rapak held a vicious monopoly on solar-fueld electronics and base materials- second and third party sellers were your only option. With their prices, however, it was almost easier to make your own paper from pulp.

His host returns with a pair of polished iron tankards, frothy and filled with lager. She hands him one in an elegant motion, his gloved fingers grasping the rounded edge gently. When he pulls it closer to himself, he watches his distorted reflection swirl around in miniature eddies. 

“So,” Opiris drawls, taking a gulp of the alcohol and settling into her own chair. Swalka eyes her barbed tail as it curls around the back of the chair. “You obviously didn’t come for a social call.” 

He straightens his back, mentally berating himself for getting so comfortable. “No, I didn’t.” He takes a sip of his drink, mouth twisting a bit at the bitter taste. “I need information on a hit.” 

Opiris observes him for a moment, reptilian eyes flicking from his hands to his face. Swalka keeps his face impassive and his posture still, used to her intimidation tactics. After a moment, she huffs out a laugh and crosses her legs. “So you wanna know if th’re one of mine.” 

Swalka doesn’t lift his gaze from hers. “I didn’t say that.” 

She snorts. “A-huh. I know you, brat. It may have been years but I know how you work.” 

Swalka feels his exhaustion settle upon his shoulders once more. He can’t really afford to piss her off, but he can’t stay for long. He leans forward, but keeps his steely gaze locked on her face. “Listen, I tracked this target from the Urlian Plains. This far outside of my normal range, this long of a mission, and they’re gonna be on my ass about every single wayward step. I just need info so I can get this hit over with.” 

Opris doesn’t react much, just stares at him with an unreadable expression and flicks her barbed tail a few times. She hums. “Name and ID?” 

“ _ Wakprin Jau’la _ . No ID on file.” 

The sharp edge of her talon clicks on the metal of her cup.“Hm. Not one of mine.” She tilts her head, still looking at him with that unknown expression. After a moment, she gets up and drifts to her desk, pulling out a stack of bound paper from underneath the wooden tabletop. 

Swalka remains at his seat, trying not to slump into the backrest. With a drink held loosely in his hands and his gaze fixed on his leather boots, he tries to take a breath. The musty smell and the sound of flipping rice-paper settles into his body, grounding his exhaustion and easing the ache of old wounds. 

“You know, my offer still stands.” Her face is obscured by her back and the braids of her emerald hair, but Swalka knows the air of casual inattention is deliberate. She’s trying to act like this topic isn’t a major landmine on his best days.

Swalka grunts, greyed eyes still locked on his feet. When they lift to stare at the wall instead, he says, “You know I can’t.” 

With this, she huffs and turns around, resting her spine against the wooden tabletop. With crossed arms, and that  _ godsdamned _ expression, Opiris goes back to observing him. “Listen, Red, it’s been fifteen goddamn years, you can’t keep punishing yourself for some senseless idealism-”

Swalka swears, still not looking at her. “You  _ know _ it’s more than that. Let it go.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes resting on his right arm, the one wrapped in blood red. “I can’t ‘let it go’, especially when you come in lookin’ halfway to hell already. You’d let yourself  _ die, _ ” She spits against the floor at the word, “but then it wouldn’t be enough punishment for your so-called ‘sins’.” She sneers, braids slapping against her back as she turns again to her files.

Swalka presses his eyelids together, relishing in the way the darkness feels against his blood-shot eyes. For a moment, neither of them speak, and the harsh scratching of a writing utensil and angrily flipped papers is all that fills the space between them. 

“You  _ know _ I could get you out of there, Red. I’ve been offering for ten fucking years. You don’t have to waste away as a  _ kaklier _ bitch under that bastard for the rest of your life.” 

He doesn’t open his eyes, but he can feel her stare. Her voice loses its trademark edge. “Why won’t you allow yourself that freedom? Look, I get it, I know your....friend’s death hit you really hard. You’re not the only one who has lost their loved one-”

Swalka stood up then, resisting the urge to shatter his drink against the greyed rock to his left. His muscles protest, a sharp sting rippling through his thighs as his knees struggle to hold his weight upright. He grits his teeth, staring doggedly at the floor in front of him, away from her stare. 

“Stop asking about it. I  _ can’t. _ ” Silver eyes shine against the low light of the cavern, hard and glistening. “I’m not your fucking charity case, okay. I came here for information and that’s it.” He bites out the words, turning to set the drink on the nearest table and letting it slip out of his fingers with a soft  _ clunk. _

Opiris lets out a sigh that whistles through her teeth. “Okay, I’ll drop it. But my offer will always stand. I’d welcome you any day amongst us, alright? No matter what you did. You don’t deserve that shit, brat.” 

“‘m not a brat,” he mutters, finally turning to meet her eyes in irritation. Opirus snorts, unaffected.

“When you get to a hundred sun-turns,  _ eve’yone _ is a brat to you. You were a brat then and you’re a brat now.” She uncrosses her arms with a smirk, and steps over to hand him a slip of white rice paper. “This is what I got from my main logs. Stay here tonight, and I’ll get you the rest by tomorrow morning.” 

Swalka scowls at the lost time, but accepts the paper respectfully anyways. Even if she frequently tried to overstep his boundaries, Opirus was one of the best information brokers out there. He’d be a fool not to accept her help, especially on a hit that has been going long as this one. 

“Thanks,” He tucks the paper away in his belt, and goes to check up on his  _ rajikla _ . Before he can step back into the walkway, Opirus grips his left elbow with a scaled hand. In her talon, pressed up against his leathers, lies a slip of aluminum. He tilts his head, noting the serious turn of her mouth. 

He takes it gently in his right hand, the thin corner scratching against his glove. He looks up to her face, a question in his gaze. “Just in case,” she says, ruby eyes hard. “We find that on you and you’ll be taken care of. You may refuse my help now, but I want you to have it.”

Swalka looks back down at the squared metal, noting the inscribed sigil swirling in the corner. A star, succeeding supernova and collapsing under it’s own weight. His eyelashes flicker, and he tucks it neatly against his breast, careful. Opiris lets up the pressure on his arm, and he stalks down the hallway without a word. She watches him go.

If everything went well tomorrow, he’d be back in the capital within a two fortnights. By then, the hit will have been taken care of, the higher ups will be off his ass, and he’ll get a bit more time to pick up info from his fellow  _ kaklier.  _ For tonight, however, he’s just grateful to be asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

  
  


-

  
  
  
  


When Swalka and Nau’dk are sixteen, their arms are finally inked together. 

Right and left. The tradition was centuries old, to bond two champions together in trust. To know that from your spine to your finger tips, you were one line; from heart to heart and back to back, you were destined to protect the other. Their ink allowed them to sing with soul and body alight and to harmonize in the blood of war. 

Each swirling drop of ink had a purpose, every shape a meaning. Their ink lines represented their bodies; step-lines for steady footing, heart-lines and lung-lines for even breath and pounding heart, soul lines traveling from Swalka’s right to Nau’dk’s left in pure connection, one line. One soul. 

The needles sting, and Nau’dk laughs when Swalka curses. Their own arm lies upon the  _ raipur  _ oak table, and the ink-needler clucks her tongue when Nau’dk keeps shifting around in impatience. “Keep moving, child, and your step-lines are gonna end up crooked.” 

Nau’dk’s eyes dance along the sections being tattooed, and they flash a crooked and sharp smile of their own. “Wouldn’t want to trip in battle just ‘cause I can’t keep my footing straight.  _ Oaella _ knows Swalka does that enough.” Swalka just sticks his tongue out at them. 

Silence swells to fill the room, the only noise being the faint rustling of the needle and the occasional shift of cloth. A heartbeat passes. Swalka flicks his eyes to the side, eyes tracing the rose-tinted runes and lines of their history that cover the walls. Champions, taming the beasts within the ocean-mountains, the snaring of the mythical serpent. The taming of the moon, the sails of the sky, the rope that stretched between each champion to their equal. The same rope that now stretched between him and Nau’dk. 

Swalka’s eyes flick back to his leather-bound feet. “You know I’d catch you, Nau’dk.” he murmurs. 

A heavy pause. A breath. “I know.” 

Swalka doesn’t have to look back to see the softness in Nau’dk’s eyes. He knows, he understands, because they are one in the same, now. One between two, hand-lines that would always be there to catch the other. They would do the same. 

.

  
  


(Four years later, Swalka realizes,  _ I lied _ . 

By  _ Oaella, _ he had _ lied _ , and he would never be able to take it back. Those hands are gone)

.

The next morning finds Swalka with a bottle of borrowed scale-oil and a cotton brush. The cavern air hangs thinly in the air, broken by the occasional cough and the swishing of the brush against his  _ raqujka _ ’s veined scales. She dozes quietly, eyes half lidded and head bowed. In the dim light of the cave her scales ripple a deep navy blue, broken on her flank with white crests like foam. 

He sighs, and tosses the cotton brush to the bucket just right of his boots. It misses, landing on the dirt floor in a mangled heap. He doesn’t bother to pick it up again. 

“Brat.” Opiris alerts him of her presence, a warning edge to her serpentine voice. “I didn’t give you an info tip just so you can trash my stable room.” 

Swalka ignores her, stepping past where she has leaned against the back wall and lifting the newly oiled saddle from the wall-hooks. He grunts as he hauls it over his mount’s back, the girth swinging gently under her belly. As he reaches to fasten it to the other side, he raises his voice. “Did you get the rest of the information I needed? Needed the coordinates for the hit’s last meeting.” 

Opiris studies her talon, idly flicking dust from underneath the sharpened nail. “Of course. Got the last client in there too. Nasty work, that man. Glad to see ‘em dead.” 

Swalka tugs on the main buckles, his  _ raqujka _ shifting and finally coming out of her dazed stupor. A yawn splits her black lips, revealing rows of silver fangs. Her head shakes, mussing her mane and clinking the straps of the bridle against her scales. Swalka runs an eye over her, satisfied. 

He turns to look at Opiris, who raises a single green eyebrow at him. “I appreciate your help, you know.” 

She scoffs and pushes off the rock wall. “Don’t have to get your leathers in a bunch tryin’ to win me over. You know I like havin’ you come by.” She steps out the door as he starts to lead his mount past her, the clipping of her curved hooves echoing against the walls. Before he gets to the outside wall, he pauses, turning to level a look at Opiris. Close to his breast, the aluminum of her sigil burns against his skin. 

He purses his lips. “Is Umbra one of yours?” 

Her expression twinkles, one of her eyebrows arching up and disappearing amongst her braids. She lifts her lips into a smirk. “Maybe.” She tilts her head. “Maybe not. I hear he’s lookin’ for you, though. Seems like you’re pretty infamous. Probably ‘cause of all the murdering and the handsome death stare you got going, ya know.” She laughs, amused. 

Swalka just rolls his eyes, hitting the switch that opens the door to the rest of the world. Amongst the rumbling of the metal doors, he hears Opiris send off her well wishes. A raised finger is all he sends in reply, stepping out into the waves of heat and facing the fate that awaits him among the red sands. 

-

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i hate world building :((  
> also me: but if i can fit ANGST into it.......ohoho......
> 
> anyways. hope u enjoyed. this was both difficult but also really fun to do! <3

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my personal hell . this is unfortunately a slow burn . sorry folx.  
> this is posted for a friend and is not meant to be serious. please be kind!


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